This is a warning to all those who may be sensitive to a stronger use of words. I’m not saying I intend to bombard you with vulgarity, but I am anticipating on using some blunt terms (we’ll call them) to get my point across.
I’ve sworn up and down that I’m not a sexist. I do not believe in “the battle of sexes” on any level. Men are not better than women, and women are not better than men. I’m an equalist, that is a certainty. But every once and awhile an extremely annoying feminist or an extremely annoying sexist spews out a few things about the opposite gender that ruins it for every other equalist out there trying desperately to keep things balanced. It pisses us off. It pisses us off because now we can’t just stand by without standing up in defense of either our own gender, or our own personal selves. Tonight, folks, it was a comedian who pissed me off. And comedians are most difficult to confront, because: “Hey! It’s a joke! It’s an act! Don’t be so uptight!”. No no. I don’t care what joke, or who’s act, if it’s creating false stereotypes and condemning a certain group of people into a false reputation, then someone has to take a stand.
A friend of mine posted a YouTube audio clip of this comedian, Bill Burr, explaining his ever ingeneous, comedic views on the women’s liberation movement and what it means for the modern woman. He joked how the reason men make a dollar an hour more than women do is because women get first dibs off the Titanic….(okay, sort of funny….) or if a burglar breaks in, the man’s off to endanger himself to check it out….or, if there’s a rabid dog coming their way, the man steps in front…
You get the idea. At first, I thought, “Heh…”. And I gave it a chuckle. I get it. I saw where he was going with it. Sort of funny. But he sort of went on and on about it. You see, the whole thing began with him trying to explain how feminists want to be equal to men, but only when it’s convenient. The funny thing is, I’ve seen that before too so I was intrigued with where he was going with it. But then it sort of morphed into “all feminists” and “all women”, and when he spewed out his description of a feminist having a butch haircut that turns into pigtails when she wants to have a man do the dirty work, I cringed. Bristled, actually. I think my eyes may have actually turned red, and I’m pretty sure I was close to breathing fire.
To begin with, the first thing I wanted to say to him when he talked about how it wasn’t fair for him to have to put himself in harm’s way should a burglar come into the house was, “What an effing pussy. Give me the damn gun, and I’ll go sacrifice myself for you, you flipping coward.” Really? Not all women are going to cower at the sound of breaking glass in the middle of the night and expect the man to go check it out. But truth be told? So what if they do. Here’s what women have to fear from a break in: kidnap, rape, then murder. How fun for us! I would much rather have to only risk getting shot in the head, like a man. Raped by a psycho? No thanks! When I’m home alone? It can be absolutely terrifying to hear bumps in the night, you have no idea. But when I know there’s a man in the house (father/brother)? Different. And for a reason. It’s not because we’re unequal to men. It’s not because we’re weaker, or less intelligent, or inferior. It’s because we’re more vulnerable. We’re more vulnerable because of the mere fact that we have vaginas that are always, constantly, in the danger of being violated by…who? By….what? Men! Bad men, sure. Rapists, psycho serial killers and the like. Creepy perverts. You know. Et cetera, et cetera. Oddly enough, our only absolute guarantee from these predators, are….well, men. Sure, we can learn a defense move or two. ‘Carry our pepper spray. I don’t doubt that there’s an olympian or two who doesn’t have to worry about getting raped…. And sure, we know not to drink from a glass that’s been left unattended, and sure we know not to get in the car with a stranger no matter how cute he is…. And sure there’s enough of us who fight when we have to and make it out okay. Sure. But the unrelenting, horrible dependence on another man to protect us is something we will never, ever be able to escape (unless you’re one of the said olympians, or some crazy street fighter or something….). I’ve met my share of wimpy men, I have. There’s a few choice ones that I would not want fighting my battles for me, no doubt about it. But tell me again: how is it going against feminism, a woman’s equal rights, to have a man defending her? ‘Not quite getting that part of the joke.
I’m an equalist, as I previously stated. I believe both men and women are equally human. Neither is superior over the other. However, we’re still very, very different. And those differences are supposed to play a part in balancing us out, not turning us against each other. Women have a certain purpose to men, and men have a certain purpose to women. ‘Generally speaking, of course. It’s pretty much as simple as this: men protect us, and we give them babies. Lovely, isn’t it?
“HOLD ON!” you say.
Isn’t it true, though? You want to know why women get to leave sinking boats first? We have one thing men don’t have that gives us first dibs on life. It’s called: a uterus. To expand a little, it’s also called: going through nine months of hell to create the fruit of a man’s loins. It’s called: he gets the fun part in pro-creating while we have to suffer through almost a whole year of gestation. Puking, swelling, pimples, hormone rages, swings of temporary insanity, leakages, unbelievable gas (which could also fall into the "leakages" catagory), weight gain, painful shape-shifting, zero sleep, aching boobs, being stripped of all sexiness entirely, constant exhaustion…..
Now, wait. Wait. Now it sounds like I’m complaining about being a woman. I’m not. I couldn’t be more proud to be one. I love the fact that I’ve been built strong enough to endure these things. But that’s just it. This, is the exact reason why men should not only respect women, but take care of us and keep us safe. It’s not because we’re lesser beings. It’s not because we’re inferior. It’s because we’re valuable. We’re valuable to men because without us we cannot give them life. And men are valuable to us because we need them to protect the family they’ve created. I really don’t see any reason either sex should find any shame in this arrangement. It’s degrading to neither party, so why is it always such a controversy of sexism? I’m more than willing to go through those nine months of agony to create a family with a man I love, if he’s willing to protect us emotionally and physically.
Am I taking this all a little too personally? Should I have really just laughed or not laughed at some stupid comedian’s jokes, gone to bed, and forgot about all of this the next morning? Most people would have. But it gave me a good excuse to express something that bothers me on a constant basis, and something that I am always, extremely passionate about. I am going to make no apologies for being offended. Change never comes from those who are too afraid to speak against their offenses. I, my dear audience, have spoken against it.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Purpose
I woke up this morning blissful, cheerful,and ridiculously giddy. I had wanted to give credit to the brisk, sunny morning, or the plenty of hours of sleep I had, or the wonderful clean smell of my sweater, but I then remembered that I had taken my anti-depressant before I went to bed the night before. Was that it? I'm not really on the pill to make me happy, but rather to keep me from returning to a certain addiction I have proudly conquered recently. I drove on, thinking, "Maybe I need this pill more than I realized..."
Depression is difficult to anylize. They say it's anger turned inward. They say it's a chemical imbalance. They say it's genetic. But what most choose to avoid talking about is the very sadness itself, the hopelessness, and the spiritual despair. Doctors don't want to say, "You're sad because you don't feel loved. You're sad because you have no hope. You're sad because you have no purpose." Depression is a powerful darkness. It can consume the strongest of souls, and it can be undeniably sneaky and undeniably deniable. But I seem to have discovered a fairly simple, accessible light that, I believe, can save even the most seemingly un-savable.
The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt the least needed. The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt completely and utterly purposeless. Futureless, pathetic, and unwanted. Useless, un-respected, and futile. Perception plays a role, no doubt. So does that chemical imbalance thing. But there's a way out. And it's not with a pill.
As I drove on I realized how inconsistant the pill had been. I haven't woken up this cheerful every single morning I've taken it the night before. So, why was this morning different?
The autumn air was different.
It smelled sweet, crisp, as if it was its own life. It made me remember the goodness of change.
It woke me.
I was alert and aware that the breath of something good was blowing through my soul. After years and years of pursueing the end of a rainbow that I would never reach, I realized that the meaning of living and breathing and dieing is entirely summed up by what we ourselves give selflessly back to life. Everything is designed by cycles and circles, and giving out is the only way we'll gain inwardly.
I thought of all the people in my life that I love. I thought of the children I teach and care for. I thought of strangers, and enemies, and criminals. If I could only figure out how to give selflessly to my community, the entirety of it, not just the ones that are safe and easy, then I could surely find my simple light, my simple salvation.
Purpose.
For once, in a very, very long time, I feel like I have a purpose for living, for breathing, and for dieing without regret. The morning sun looks very different when you know you're headed toward a horizon of promise, and a place where people need and want you. The road is a much happier place to be when you have a direction. People in your life become much less oppressive when you give to them without expecting anything in return. It is a great feat, and a great joy to make others feel loved.
Purpose.
It truly is, as simple as that.
Depression is difficult to anylize. They say it's anger turned inward. They say it's a chemical imbalance. They say it's genetic. But what most choose to avoid talking about is the very sadness itself, the hopelessness, and the spiritual despair. Doctors don't want to say, "You're sad because you don't feel loved. You're sad because you have no hope. You're sad because you have no purpose." Depression is a powerful darkness. It can consume the strongest of souls, and it can be undeniably sneaky and undeniably deniable. But I seem to have discovered a fairly simple, accessible light that, I believe, can save even the most seemingly un-savable.
The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt the least needed. The darkest times in my life have been when I've felt completely and utterly purposeless. Futureless, pathetic, and unwanted. Useless, un-respected, and futile. Perception plays a role, no doubt. So does that chemical imbalance thing. But there's a way out. And it's not with a pill.
As I drove on I realized how inconsistant the pill had been. I haven't woken up this cheerful every single morning I've taken it the night before. So, why was this morning different?
The autumn air was different.
It smelled sweet, crisp, as if it was its own life. It made me remember the goodness of change.
It woke me.
I was alert and aware that the breath of something good was blowing through my soul. After years and years of pursueing the end of a rainbow that I would never reach, I realized that the meaning of living and breathing and dieing is entirely summed up by what we ourselves give selflessly back to life. Everything is designed by cycles and circles, and giving out is the only way we'll gain inwardly.
I thought of all the people in my life that I love. I thought of the children I teach and care for. I thought of strangers, and enemies, and criminals. If I could only figure out how to give selflessly to my community, the entirety of it, not just the ones that are safe and easy, then I could surely find my simple light, my simple salvation.
Purpose.
For once, in a very, very long time, I feel like I have a purpose for living, for breathing, and for dieing without regret. The morning sun looks very different when you know you're headed toward a horizon of promise, and a place where people need and want you. The road is a much happier place to be when you have a direction. People in your life become much less oppressive when you give to them without expecting anything in return. It is a great feat, and a great joy to make others feel loved.
Purpose.
It truly is, as simple as that.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Tree
June 8, 2006
Wait, wait for it. Words will come, they always do...
I was not suppose to be here, tonight. Tonight is another end to another dead day, and I grieve about where life has brought me. Melancholy is a dreadful thing to be redundant with, but an artist knows no other way. I am tormented by simple things, and strengthened by the terrible. It is a mystery, dear Reader, a mystery.
I wait for new growth. I wait for a new stature. I try to love the simple life that has been given me, but I grieve for its simplicity instead. I want suffering, and hardship, and turmoil. A fool! I know. But without challenge there is no purpose, and I feel purposeless. I feel like I have nothing to show for bravery, and strength, and virtue. I have nothing to show for wisdom, growth, and accomplishment. None have come to challenge me, but I don’t even know if I could meet up to them anyway if they were to even come at all. In all frankness, I fear the outcome. I fear the mirror of inevitable truth, the evidence that I am nothing but weak, fragile, sinful, and failing.
My good childhood has cursed me. I have been sheltered from the darknesses of the world, and I know nothing about it. I relate to no one because everyone has not been kept up in a shell like I have. Men don’t want me because I have no strength or wisdom to carry their burdens. Friends don’t want me because I have nothing to offer but desperate melancholy. Is it good to have a good life? Not if you feel spoiled by it.
I realize my fragility when I confront the reasoning to why I have been so safe. For years upon years, I did nothing but hide from the world. I hid in the secret caverns of my poetry and stories, creating safe worlds that were familiar to me, and I never came out of my hiding to find out what truly lay beyond the veil of fantasy. I have been shut up in a prison of safety, and it has maimed me. It has turned my own self against itself, and the battle is tiresome and cruel. I hate the unwanted person that I’ve become. I give illusion to myself that I have so much to offer to the world, and to people, and more intimately, to men. But I then come to realize that I am so shut up in selfishness and safety, and I am so stunted in worldly knowledge, and I have no challenger to give me reason to grow, and I am so virgin to all the ways of true goodness and virtue that I have absolutely nothing at all to give. I am empty. The void is falling into decay as the age of uselessness consumes it. A rotten, fallen tree. Hollow, and purposeless. But then I say to myself, if only I had been but a tree! A fallen tree would’ve been much more elegant than what I’ve become. I envy the tree.
I hope with all hope that I’ll find reason, or a path, that will lead me out of this terrible fate. Instead of waiting for life to challenge me, I should rise above it and challenge life itself. But, in truth, I am a coward indeed. This speech is redundant, and still I have not changed. I have written this melancholy many a time, and I always draw the end to a “new beginning”, or a “new hope.” But the new beginning never comes, and hope becomes foolish. I am a coward. I speak of coming out of my hiding veil, but I never do. What will become of me tomorrow? All that I know, is the world inside my head. I will be blind with never the hope of seeing simply because I am too afraid to open my eyes. A fool’s way, but it is the only way I know.
If I remember how to listen to the trees again, I just might find my way to certainty and purpose. They beckon to me, wanting a better life for me. They seem to be the only ones to know why life is said to be so beautiful. Maybe, tomorrow, I will rise to the heavens with them.
Wait, wait for it. Words will come, they always do...
I was not suppose to be here, tonight. Tonight is another end to another dead day, and I grieve about where life has brought me. Melancholy is a dreadful thing to be redundant with, but an artist knows no other way. I am tormented by simple things, and strengthened by the terrible. It is a mystery, dear Reader, a mystery.
I wait for new growth. I wait for a new stature. I try to love the simple life that has been given me, but I grieve for its simplicity instead. I want suffering, and hardship, and turmoil. A fool! I know. But without challenge there is no purpose, and I feel purposeless. I feel like I have nothing to show for bravery, and strength, and virtue. I have nothing to show for wisdom, growth, and accomplishment. None have come to challenge me, but I don’t even know if I could meet up to them anyway if they were to even come at all. In all frankness, I fear the outcome. I fear the mirror of inevitable truth, the evidence that I am nothing but weak, fragile, sinful, and failing.
My good childhood has cursed me. I have been sheltered from the darknesses of the world, and I know nothing about it. I relate to no one because everyone has not been kept up in a shell like I have. Men don’t want me because I have no strength or wisdom to carry their burdens. Friends don’t want me because I have nothing to offer but desperate melancholy. Is it good to have a good life? Not if you feel spoiled by it.
I realize my fragility when I confront the reasoning to why I have been so safe. For years upon years, I did nothing but hide from the world. I hid in the secret caverns of my poetry and stories, creating safe worlds that were familiar to me, and I never came out of my hiding to find out what truly lay beyond the veil of fantasy. I have been shut up in a prison of safety, and it has maimed me. It has turned my own self against itself, and the battle is tiresome and cruel. I hate the unwanted person that I’ve become. I give illusion to myself that I have so much to offer to the world, and to people, and more intimately, to men. But I then come to realize that I am so shut up in selfishness and safety, and I am so stunted in worldly knowledge, and I have no challenger to give me reason to grow, and I am so virgin to all the ways of true goodness and virtue that I have absolutely nothing at all to give. I am empty. The void is falling into decay as the age of uselessness consumes it. A rotten, fallen tree. Hollow, and purposeless. But then I say to myself, if only I had been but a tree! A fallen tree would’ve been much more elegant than what I’ve become. I envy the tree.
I hope with all hope that I’ll find reason, or a path, that will lead me out of this terrible fate. Instead of waiting for life to challenge me, I should rise above it and challenge life itself. But, in truth, I am a coward indeed. This speech is redundant, and still I have not changed. I have written this melancholy many a time, and I always draw the end to a “new beginning”, or a “new hope.” But the new beginning never comes, and hope becomes foolish. I am a coward. I speak of coming out of my hiding veil, but I never do. What will become of me tomorrow? All that I know, is the world inside my head. I will be blind with never the hope of seeing simply because I am too afraid to open my eyes. A fool’s way, but it is the only way I know.
If I remember how to listen to the trees again, I just might find my way to certainty and purpose. They beckon to me, wanting a better life for me. They seem to be the only ones to know why life is said to be so beautiful. Maybe, tomorrow, I will rise to the heavens with them.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wanting Pretty
I'll be the first to admit it. I will. I want a pretty husband. I don't want a pretty husband without substance or virtues, but damn it all, Folks, I want my husband to be pretty.
I don't consider myself a shallow woman. My wants for beauty in the oppostie sex do not reflect a dysfunctional value system. It bluntly reflects my need for a healthy sex life. Now, here it is, Reader, the moral hidden beneath my misleading ways: I want a man who is pretty...in my eyes.
Obvious, right? We All want that. But you know what's interesting? So many people settle for less. I'm not saying people settle for ugly people... No. I'm saying that some people would rather be in a relationship with someone they're only sort of attracted to opposed to being alone or waiting for someone they're truly attracted to.
Sex without passion is a strange phenomenon to me. I could understand that lifestyle if we were living in the 19th century when women were forced to marry their rich cousins, old, young, ugly or uglier (not to mention the creepy blood relation...), but now? Now women have the choice to marry for love, and still, STILL some settle too soon, or feel that marriage is just something you do after college, or... one of the other millions of reasons people marry people they're only half attracted to.
I guess I don't quite get it, Reader. Am I really that shallow for wanting pretty? I honestly couldn't throw myself full-heartedly at a man who, in my own eyes, turned me off by the sight of him (no matter how nice he is as a person).
Please do not misread me, Reader. You must, it is vital that you must, understand that I am ultimately speaking of true love. Loving someone infinitely turns every part of your senses on to the deepest, most passionate desires. And that is all I want. I want a pretty man to love for all the days of my life.
I don't consider myself a shallow woman. My wants for beauty in the oppostie sex do not reflect a dysfunctional value system. It bluntly reflects my need for a healthy sex life. Now, here it is, Reader, the moral hidden beneath my misleading ways: I want a man who is pretty...in my eyes.
Obvious, right? We All want that. But you know what's interesting? So many people settle for less. I'm not saying people settle for ugly people... No. I'm saying that some people would rather be in a relationship with someone they're only sort of attracted to opposed to being alone or waiting for someone they're truly attracted to.
Sex without passion is a strange phenomenon to me. I could understand that lifestyle if we were living in the 19th century when women were forced to marry their rich cousins, old, young, ugly or uglier (not to mention the creepy blood relation...), but now? Now women have the choice to marry for love, and still, STILL some settle too soon, or feel that marriage is just something you do after college, or... one of the other millions of reasons people marry people they're only half attracted to.
I guess I don't quite get it, Reader. Am I really that shallow for wanting pretty? I honestly couldn't throw myself full-heartedly at a man who, in my own eyes, turned me off by the sight of him (no matter how nice he is as a person).
Please do not misread me, Reader. You must, it is vital that you must, understand that I am ultimately speaking of true love. Loving someone infinitely turns every part of your senses on to the deepest, most passionate desires. And that is all I want. I want a pretty man to love for all the days of my life.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Piece of It: An Excerpt from Jeff Roman and the Copper Spade
...Jeff had four older sisters, two younger, and a twin. He got along with most of the them for the most part, all with the great, huge exception of one. As much as the others drove him crazy (as normal siblings do), there was one who always seemed to walk around with an ax in her hand ready for the perfect moment to chop Jeff’s dignity into a million pieces. Her eyes never softened, and her sharp mouth never ceased. Her entrance into a room could make the captain of the football team shake in his knees (and inevitably run). She was quick minded like a fox, and had the prowl of a lioness, the brains of a surgeon and the heart of a mercenary. Her name was Jenny, and she was thirteen years old.
Jenny despised Jeff thoroughly. She enjoyed verbal abuse to the degree where Jeff often thought the Universe should open up its heavens and bend its rules of nature, just for a moment, and make it perfectly ethical to hit a girl in the face. He often wanted to hit her in the face. It was an awful feeling, but anybody who knew Jenny’s relentless mouth would have no problem forgiving Jeff if he ever submitted to his urges. However, it was because of Jenny (and Jeff’s will to resist his urge in hitting her) that the Universe did decide to open up its roof of rules for Jeff and send him something that would change his life forever. Just when he thought that being a respectable gentleman would never pay off, and just when he thought that being outnumbered by women would soon send him to the loony bin, and just when he thought he couldn’t bare another one of Jenny’s relentless ax blows, a blue light had fallen from the night sky to save him...
Jenny despised Jeff thoroughly. She enjoyed verbal abuse to the degree where Jeff often thought the Universe should open up its heavens and bend its rules of nature, just for a moment, and make it perfectly ethical to hit a girl in the face. He often wanted to hit her in the face. It was an awful feeling, but anybody who knew Jenny’s relentless mouth would have no problem forgiving Jeff if he ever submitted to his urges. However, it was because of Jenny (and Jeff’s will to resist his urge in hitting her) that the Universe did decide to open up its roof of rules for Jeff and send him something that would change his life forever. Just when he thought that being a respectable gentleman would never pay off, and just when he thought that being outnumbered by women would soon send him to the loony bin, and just when he thought he couldn’t bare another one of Jenny’s relentless ax blows, a blue light had fallen from the night sky to save him...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Storytelling and Its Secret Ingredients
The Harry Potter phenomenon prompted questions of deep yearning and greed to understand the magic behind its success. World wide, people have been asking with demanding desperate force, "How?", "Why haven't other wonderfully written stories reaped the same fate?". I ask, Is it really that mysterious? Can they really not figure it out?
My piano teacher always said, "Simplicity is beauty, simplicity that is well done." The simplicity in Rowling's writing is demonstrated by the fact that she can paint a universally viewed picture in three sentences or less. World wide, everyone shares her vision. Her ability to communicate universally is an extremely rare trait (for any human being). Not only that, but the magic behind the hero Harry lies in nothing more or less than his creator. The books have a soul. Her soul. Everything in the tale illustrates an extraoridary person of virtue, wisdom, humor, wit, cleverness, love, commitment, discipline, and passion. Most writers can, sure, string together some clever metaphores, or come up with a good one-liner, or even invent some unique, clever plot, but what most writers fail to do, where Rowling did not, is deliver a plothole-less, seamless, consistantly charming, character driven masterpiece.
Dialog is key. Never has a story come to page with such vivid, bio plotted, three dimensional characters such as Rowling's magical descendants. Each character speaks in their own manner, giving them an individuality that readers can relate to. The only other author that has ever mastered character development this profoundly (and possibly more so, in my own personal opinion) was the King of Fantasy, JRR Tolkien himself.
Good vs. Evil. Age old no doubt, but nothing is more powerful than the absolute darkness battling the absolute light. And when you churn in the love values, and friendships, and the tragedies and the triumphs, and then put it all together with characters that feel so real to you that you become completely, entirely, utterly engrossed in the destiny of their fate, you have the components of something extremely, terrifically awe-inspiring.
Humor and comic relief is an absolute necessity, no matter what story one is trying to tell. And truth be told, not all writers have this gift. In fact, a majority don't. Being quippy and abstractly silly can only take you so far. Being over the top clever, using your humor as your only compensation for your lack of story-telling talent isn't going to do the trick either. Gimmicks. Stay away from gimmicks! Rowling has an imbeded gift for laughs in her own person, and it's a natural part of a human being that can't be formulated or re-created or borrowed.
Passion. For me, this is where it gets personal. Not all writers are passionate. Just because one may be published, does not mean that one eats, drinks, and breathes their craft. There is something almost (dare I say it?) supernatural about true passion and its driving force. Some people plough through college, turn in A+ papers, have people telling them how good their writing is and that they should, "Hey! Write a book!". Some people pick up a pen during mid-life year and decide, "I should write a memoir." And then there's those of us who have been writing, in a sense, before we even knew our letters. Storytelling comes in all shapes and forms, through make-believe, playtime, acting (giving personalities to dolls and stuffed animals....). All of that is important to honing the craft of writing, of storytelling. I, myself, have known nothing else all my life other than creating, inventing, and producing stories in some shape or form. (Told you this was where it got personal...) The written form came to me young, age seven. And as I grew older, it became clear that it was my purpose. By seventh grade, I was working on my first novel. It was horrible, no doubt, but that's how serious I was. And ever since, I couldn't live without it. When I picked up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone for the first time and read that first line, something completely unexplainable moved within me. I felt connected. I don't mean this in an arrogant way; please, please don't misread me! I am in no shape or form putting myself up to par with the great JK Rowling, but there was something there in her writing that I related to. I could sense and feel and know her passion. I knew instantly that she had a deep, personal relationship with her writing, and because of it, because of that driving force, she dedicated nearly her entire life to her pen and ink hero. She commited to the story. No plot holes, no loose ends, notebooks upon notebooks of bios, a plethera of details that never even made it into the books. But it was because of all those details, those backstories, that breathed life into the entire thing and made all of us, ALL of us believe that it all could, very possibly, just maybe, be real. That was the magic that sucked us all in to her world.
So, why haven't other well written stories made this much of a bang into our culture? Writing, itself, is easy. Being imaginative, not that unique. Having virtues such as discipline, humility, confidence, being commited, and understanding the wisdom of love, humor, and having a keen perception of human character, all play their role in story telling. There are just some things that books and colleges cannot teach you about writing. It comes from a much, much deeper place. You either got it or you don't.
My piano teacher always said, "Simplicity is beauty, simplicity that is well done." The simplicity in Rowling's writing is demonstrated by the fact that she can paint a universally viewed picture in three sentences or less. World wide, everyone shares her vision. Her ability to communicate universally is an extremely rare trait (for any human being). Not only that, but the magic behind the hero Harry lies in nothing more or less than his creator. The books have a soul. Her soul. Everything in the tale illustrates an extraoridary person of virtue, wisdom, humor, wit, cleverness, love, commitment, discipline, and passion. Most writers can, sure, string together some clever metaphores, or come up with a good one-liner, or even invent some unique, clever plot, but what most writers fail to do, where Rowling did not, is deliver a plothole-less, seamless, consistantly charming, character driven masterpiece.
Dialog is key. Never has a story come to page with such vivid, bio plotted, three dimensional characters such as Rowling's magical descendants. Each character speaks in their own manner, giving them an individuality that readers can relate to. The only other author that has ever mastered character development this profoundly (and possibly more so, in my own personal opinion) was the King of Fantasy, JRR Tolkien himself.
Good vs. Evil. Age old no doubt, but nothing is more powerful than the absolute darkness battling the absolute light. And when you churn in the love values, and friendships, and the tragedies and the triumphs, and then put it all together with characters that feel so real to you that you become completely, entirely, utterly engrossed in the destiny of their fate, you have the components of something extremely, terrifically awe-inspiring.
Humor and comic relief is an absolute necessity, no matter what story one is trying to tell. And truth be told, not all writers have this gift. In fact, a majority don't. Being quippy and abstractly silly can only take you so far. Being over the top clever, using your humor as your only compensation for your lack of story-telling talent isn't going to do the trick either. Gimmicks. Stay away from gimmicks! Rowling has an imbeded gift for laughs in her own person, and it's a natural part of a human being that can't be formulated or re-created or borrowed.
Passion. For me, this is where it gets personal. Not all writers are passionate. Just because one may be published, does not mean that one eats, drinks, and breathes their craft. There is something almost (dare I say it?) supernatural about true passion and its driving force. Some people plough through college, turn in A+ papers, have people telling them how good their writing is and that they should, "Hey! Write a book!". Some people pick up a pen during mid-life year and decide, "I should write a memoir." And then there's those of us who have been writing, in a sense, before we even knew our letters. Storytelling comes in all shapes and forms, through make-believe, playtime, acting (giving personalities to dolls and stuffed animals....). All of that is important to honing the craft of writing, of storytelling. I, myself, have known nothing else all my life other than creating, inventing, and producing stories in some shape or form. (Told you this was where it got personal...) The written form came to me young, age seven. And as I grew older, it became clear that it was my purpose. By seventh grade, I was working on my first novel. It was horrible, no doubt, but that's how serious I was. And ever since, I couldn't live without it. When I picked up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone for the first time and read that first line, something completely unexplainable moved within me. I felt connected. I don't mean this in an arrogant way; please, please don't misread me! I am in no shape or form putting myself up to par with the great JK Rowling, but there was something there in her writing that I related to. I could sense and feel and know her passion. I knew instantly that she had a deep, personal relationship with her writing, and because of it, because of that driving force, she dedicated nearly her entire life to her pen and ink hero. She commited to the story. No plot holes, no loose ends, notebooks upon notebooks of bios, a plethera of details that never even made it into the books. But it was because of all those details, those backstories, that breathed life into the entire thing and made all of us, ALL of us believe that it all could, very possibly, just maybe, be real. That was the magic that sucked us all in to her world.
So, why haven't other well written stories made this much of a bang into our culture? Writing, itself, is easy. Being imaginative, not that unique. Having virtues such as discipline, humility, confidence, being commited, and understanding the wisdom of love, humor, and having a keen perception of human character, all play their role in story telling. There are just some things that books and colleges cannot teach you about writing. It comes from a much, much deeper place. You either got it or you don't.
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